Boo Radley's Story
by leatharegee
Summary: Have you ever wondered what Boo felt as he watched the children watch him from the safety of his home? And why is he the way he is? This is my explanation.


**Boo Radley's Story**

By Jctigerwolf4eBy Jctigerwolf4e

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Hey guys, this is my first **good** piece of Fic im posting on ff.net so I hope you like it. I wrote this for school last year and got a 162 out of 163 on it, but I want to know what you guys think so click the little blue button at the bottom of the screen and review when you finish! Please and thank you!

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The kids call me Boo, but my given name is Arthur. Boo is who people think I am. Arthur is the real me. You see, when I was about 15, I had a run-in with the police. The police accused me of being part of a gang of boys who were causing trouble down by the market. I don't know what they were really doing but the next thing I knew, I was inside the police house being questioned. Apparently Bob Ewell had told them that I was to blame and because I couldn't prove that I hadn't done whatever he and his friends had done, I was put in a cell overnight. My father was incredibly angry with me. I tried to tell him the real story but he wouldn't listen. I was horrified; if I was pronounced guilty I would have to spend 3-6 months in jail. My father blamed me for ruining the family name and after I was pronounced guilty in court, he negotiated my sentence with the judge and they agreed that instead of me going to jail, my father would keep me under house arrest for an undetermined period of time. I suppose he felt that I should be thankful for him bailing me out of jail in a way, but I'm not. He only did what he did to avoid embarrassment to the family name, but by doing so, he scarred the family name even more by keeping me here. People walk by whispering about the crazed Arthur Radley, who lives in 'that run-down house'. I've heard the kids refer to me as "Boo;" they must think I am pretty scary from all the stories they've heard. I know what they've heard - that I'm violent and dangerous, but I know that what they think is wrong. The adults seem to accept the stories told in the gossip circles, but the children must be intrigued by the stories since they often come around to stare up at the house, as if they want to find out if the stories are true. I don't really like the adults. Ever since I've been stuck in here adults tend to make me nervous; the children are more interesting and innocent, clean of the corruption of the outside world, in a way. I want to meet them; I want them to know Arthur, not Boo. Maybe someday they will. And maybe someday everyone will accept me for who I am, not who they think I am. 

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I suppose my story starts back when I was placed under house arrest when I was 15, about 25 years ago. But it didn't get interesting until the arrival of Dill two summers ago. Dill moved in with his Aunt Stephanie and he sparked Jem and Scout's interest in me and my house. I live three doors down from the Finches and Miss Stephanie lives on the other side of the Finches. I guess Jem and Scout Finch, Atticus Finch's two children, were always somewhat fascinated by the tall tales told by the townsfolk regarding the 'crazed Boo Radley', because they are always skirting around the edge of our yard and watching and pointing and whispering. I like to pretend that they are whispering about me and wishing that they could be my friends. Maybe they will get bold enough to walk up and knock on the door and invite me to play, and I like to think that I'm bold enough to say yes, in case they ever do. But as much as I think I could say yes, I also know deep down that it wouldn't and it can't be that easy.  Dill was also interested in me, but he was more than fascinated...he could spend hours standing across the street from my house, just looking and imagining, I imagine. I could spend the same countless hours staring back at him, but the difference was that I could see him and imagine talking to him and he couldn't see me standing silently behind the curtain. He was most likely imagining a horrible beast who was six feet tall and crazy. I wish that he was imaging Arthur. But in the back of my head I know that he was imagining Boo.  Scout and Jem also watched with Dill. I could always recognize them. One of the hardest things about being locked inside is the reality of the fact that as much as I know about them, and as much as I think they wish they knew about me, they will never be able to recognize me physically. It seems like because I know what they look like; they must know what I look like. When I realized that they might never know, I started thinking about leaving the house to meet them. I really did want to go out and meet the children, but leaving the safety of my home and the darkness was pretty overpowering. I think maybe Dill and Jem and Scout have created a game that seems to include me - or rather the scary me they envisioned. I can only see parts of the game, and I can't hear anything they say, except for some of Jem's screams and howls from under their front porch. Is he pretending to be Boo? He doesn't know Arthur, he knows only of Boo. I want him to know Arthur.

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I have been watching the children playing next door some more. They are definitely playing a game about me. I'm not the way they think I am, though. I know the townsfolk make me out to be a monster. Eating their cats and dogs, they say. I wish I had a cat, or a dog! It would be nice to have a companion who doesn't understand the lies being told about me in the outside world. I could play with it and feed it and keep it safe from the neighborhood dogs. It's lonely being locked up in this house, I've lost count of the days; today blends into tomorrow and into next week and next year. I think it's been almost 25 years I've been stuck in here. I used to want to go outside and back into the open, but now I don't think I'm strong enough to withstand the questioning stares of the townsfolk as I walk by and the surprised murmurs that would waft behind me as I passed. If I was to go out even onto my front porch, I think everyone would be back behind his or her front doors before I could even say 'hey'. 

They don't know it, but ever since the children began playing and watching, I've been playing and watching them... I've watched them day and night, night and day. All these lonely years reading, cutting and pasting in my scrapbook; things only got interesting once the kids' interest in me was sparked by Dill's arrival.They think that I don't know what's going on in their world. But I hear parts of what they're saying. They never tire of the "Boo" game they have been playing a game outside. Scout stands on the front porch sweeping with a broken broom. Jem crawls under the porch stairs and Dill stalks around on the porch, sometimes loudly stomping on the steps. They call me Boo. I don't know why, maybe because...they are waiting for me to jump out of the shadows and say "BOO!" It hurts to think that they find me so repulsive. It only strengthens my desire to meet them. I they came up with the nickname because of what the townsfolk say, although I have heard Atticus correct them and tell them to use "Arthur" instead of "Boo". He doesn't know how thankful I am for that. I want to let the kids know what I'm really like inside, not evil and heartless, but normal, like any human being, with feelings and emotions. But my brother has continued my father's house arrest - he's bigger than I and he has a gun; after all these years I still don't have the courage to stand up to him. He won't let me out of the house for any reason. But what he doesn't know is that I've been out before; just to get fresh air and to sit in the darkness and watch the town sleeping quietly at night. Darkness is my friend; I can't imagine anything big enough to bring me out into the light, face to face with people I only know through the lace of the living room curtains. 

Police Arrest Group of Boys in Connection with Shoplifting and Vandalism 

By Benjamin Dover

            Yesterday the Maycomb County Police arrested a group of boys between the ages of 14 and 17 for shoplifting and vandalizing private and public property. Included in this gang were Pete Robertson, Andrew Rinkley, Robert Ewell, Arthur Radley, Billy Thesling, and Dean Foster. Charges were pressed and the boys were sentenced to 2 months in the local jail. Upon hearing the sentence, Mr. Radley, in attempt to avoid embarrassment to the family name, negotiated with the prosecution and requested that instead of the county imprisoning his son, he be allowed to keep Arthur under house arrest for an undetermined period of time.  

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Last night Nathan and I were sitting in the living room, he reading the paper and me carving soap dolls in Jem and Scout's likenesses. I heard a slight creaking on the front porch. I glanced quickly at Nathan to see if he had heard it but he hadn't. Putting down the unfinished soap dolls, I stood up. Nathan glanced up briefly. I crept out the back door and around the side of the house anyways. I looked across the front porch, and much to my surprise I saw Jem Finch trying to sneak a glance into our living room. Then I saw Scout and Dill crouched by the side of the porch, ready to sprint away at the first sign of danger. I reached out my hand, I wanted to touch his arm and make sure he was real, but I think my shadow on the wall scared him, because he turned and ran as fast as he could, attempting to crawl under the wire fence in the yard. I heard a gunshot and an angry shout; I recognized the voice to be Nathan's. The children ran even faster away from my house. Away from me. I hid behind the trees in a dark corner of the yard, watching them and listening to their panicky whispered voices. Once they were gone, I noticed a large clump of fabric snagged on the fence. Gently working around the wire I removed a pair of trousers from the fence. Running as fast as I could, I ran up the stairs and through the back door Nathan stormed in through the front door just as I threw myself down in the wooden rocking chair. He was fuming. His face was red and he was cursing and muttering under his breath about intruders and people not respecting other people's privacy. I kept quiet, afraid that he would blame me for attracting attention to the house. I sat as quietly as possible so as not to disturb his rant. Sometimes I think that even if Nathan left the door wide open and left me alone, I still couldn't go outside, for fear of the townspeople's stares and for fear of him yelling at me and threatening me.

I went into my room and sat down on my bed. Fishing around in the darkness under my bed I finally found what I was looking for. My mother's old sewing kit, it was small, just a few ragged spools of red, black, and gray thread and a slightly rusted needle, but it served its purpose. Carefully threading the needle and double knotting the thread I began my work sewing up the tear in the trousers. I wondered whose they were, Jem's or Dill's. Holding them up to the moonlight I figured they were Jem's, seeing as Dill was _much_ smaller that Jem and these pants looked like they were those of a teenager, so they're probably Jem's. I knotted the end of the thread and looked at my handiwork, it looked like something a child would do, and not something fancy like a lady could do. I folded the trousers neatly. I lay down on my bed and listened quietly for Nathan's heavy breathing coming through the thin walls to signal that he was sleeping. Once I was sure he was asleep, I peeled off the covers and tiptoed out of my room and through the kitchen and out the back door. When I reached the fence I placed the mended trousers gently on top of the fence, just in case their owner came back to get them, and snuck back into my bed. I felt a bubble rise in my chest, I was happy. I was happy that I had done something to help, to connect with, my friends. I had helped Jem by fixing his trousers and untangling them from the wire, plus maybe he wouldn't be punished for ripping his trousers. As I lay there, I realized just how close I had been to meeting my friends. The thought was almost unnerving. It was something I had dreamed of, but I never thought it could actually happen. Now it seems like more than a dream. Is it a possibility?

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            I finished the soap dolls today. I decided to put them inside the knothole in the big tree outside, just like I've done before. Earlier I put two Indian head pennies, yarn, gum, and some other loose ends I've found around the house. I watch Jem and Scout find the gifts. They are always so excited and I am glad that they enjoy them. I want to earn their trust.  Now they have stopped playing their game outside. I don't know if it has anything to do with the gifts, and if their opinion of me is changing, or if Atticus told them to stop playing.  Maybe it was the fact that I fixed Jem's pants, I don't really know. But I'm glad they stopped. I think, I hope at least, that they are more interested in Arthur now that their 'Boo Radley is crazy and violent' stage seems to be over.

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            Earlier this evening I heard the front door bang open and closed and then the lock clicked shut. Nathan came in stomping off his boots and I noticed the tool that he was holding in his hand had fresh cement drying on it. I grew uneasy as I wondered what he possibly could have been cementing.  Suddenly he accused me of having connections with the outside world and giving the children gifts. How he found out I don't know, but before he could say anymore, I ran to the window to make sure that Jem and Scout were okay. A quick glance at the clock told me that they would have been at the knothole right now. There they were. Scout was crying and Jem had his arm around her sobbing shoulders as they walked home. If Nathan had done anything to them out of his anger at me for leaving them gifts, I would have made him wish he were never born, and I _never_ would have forgiven myself for putting the children in danger of Nathan's uncontrollable temper.

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The one incident that always stands out in my mind is the one that finally brought us together. It's funny, but the night of the _Scout's_ school pageant is one of the most important events of _my_ life. Late at night in the dark of the living room, I was gluing more newspaper articles into my scrapbook when I heard children's shrieking voices coming from across the street. And they weren't happy shrieks; they were screams of terror. I dropped the scissors and ran to the window. Pulling back the heavy curtain I could see a struggle taking place in the woods across the street. Instinctively I ran to the door. I looked at the doorknob. It was glinting in the moonlight streaming in through the open curtains, taunting me. I reached for the doorknob; it was now or never. Grasping it firmly I twisted it and flung open the door, my heart was beating fast at my daring move. Dashing across the street in the shadows I ran into the comforting darkness of the trees, only to find a not so comforting sight. A drunken man, who I vaguely recognized, was attacking the children with a knife. My heart leapt into my throat and I felt the adrenaline start pumping through my veins. My head swirled with emotions, most of which I can't even begin to name. I dashed forwards, my feet crunching on the leaves. Reaching out I grabbed the back of the assailant's jacket and threw him off of Scout. I looked at Jem, he was lying silent and his arm was sticking away from his body at an unnatural angle. When I saw him lying there, I though he was...I can't even say it, but I felt like a failure. I felt like I was supposed to be protecting them, and I had failed. The man turned to attack me next but I shoved him away. As he landed on the dry leaves a loud crack resounded through the woods. The man groaned once more, and then was silent. I don't remember exactly what happened then, but I remember picking up an unconscious Jem. I stepped into the street and into the warmth of the streetlight, but in my concern for Jem I barely noticed this event I had thought about for so many years. I recall walking quickly across the street, careful not to jar the unconscious boy in my arms, and used my foot to bang loudly on the Finch's front door. Atticus opened the door and when he saw my face his eyes widened in surprise; when he saw Jem his look changed to one of urgency. Taking Jem from me he rushed inside the house. Uncomfortably I followed Atticus into a room; I presumed it to be Jem's. I noticed the cigar box I had given to him once and the piece of yellow yarn I had given to him once sticking out of it. Happiness and pride bubbled up in my throat again as I realized that they _had_ really enjoyed my gifts and kept them neat and safe. I had thought it was just a foolish hope of mine that my gifts would mean as much to them as they did to me. As I slid back into the comfort of the darkness behind the door I heard light footsteps enter the room, and out of the crack behind the door I saw Scout staring in horror at her motionless brother; I knew she thought he was... I could hear her heavy breathing; she must have run from the woods. The sheriff and Atticus began questioning Scout, but I wasn't really interested. I was too busy reveling in the fact that not only had I left the house, but that I had made contact with my friends, Jem and Scout. Suddenly, I realized Scout was pointing at me.

"Why there he is, Mr. Tate, he can tell you his name," she said. I was surprised that she didn't know, but then I remembered that I had been the one observing her, not vice versa. I had seen her and know what she looked like since she was old enough to understand the stories people told about me. I suppose my pale skin and somewhat ghostly features were startling to her, but I was relieved to see she wasn't scared.After a moment she must have realized who I was because plain as could be, she greeted me as an old friend, "Hey, Boo." I was a little hurt by the use of my nickname, but when she said it, it suddenly didn't sound so bad. It sounded friendly and warm.I also expected it. I tried to talk, to say something. To my dismay, my vocal chords froze and no sound came out. Atticus, however, corrected her and told her to use "Mr. Arthur", not "Boo". My mouth twitched; suddenly I realized I was smiling. I hadn't had a reason to smile in years; it had become a foreign concept to me. I was glad when Atticus glanced at me and seemed to notice both my happiness and my discomfort in the bright living room lights; he suggested to Scout that we go out to sit on the front porch. I stood dumbly in the room looking at Jem when I heard a small voice by my side saying "Come along Mr. Arthur, you don't know the house real well. I'll just take you to the porch, sir." That almost made me laugh; Scout calling me "Sir". I don't think I have ever been called Sir, or anything respectful. Scout led me through the hall and past the living room.

"Won't you have a seat, Mr. Arthur? This rocking-chair's nice and comfortable," Scout said. I smiled again at the name. She was finally meeting Arthur, and forgetting Boo. Even if she thought "Boo", it wouldn't matter, as long as she knew Arthur. I sat down in the chair and Scout took a seat next to me. She was so close, I held onto her hand in fear of waking up from this amazing dream. I pinched my leg inconspicuously, and the pain reassured me that I wasn't dreaming. This was nice. I wanted to ask about Jem, but my voice failed me.

"Thank you for my children, Arthur." It was Atticus. He had finished conversing with Mr. Tate and was heading inside. Once he went in I stood up, ready to walk inside and see Jem. I took a deep breath to calm my jittering nerves. I was incredibly nervous; unlike I ever was when I visited with Scout and Jem in my imagination. I rested my hand lightly on the rocking chair's armrest but quickly withdrew it out of awkwardness. I took another deep breath, too deep in fact. I started coughing. Embarrassed, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my handkerchief. I coughed into it, and wiped my forehead, which was now dripping in sweat. 

Now Scout came to my rescuer. "You'd like to Say goodnight to Jem, wouldn't you, Mr. Arthur? Come right in." She must have sensed my apprehensiveness at entering the house and, on her own, Scout took my hand in hers. Startled, I looked at our intertwined fingers; her hand was so small, so fragile compared to mine. A flicker of a smile appeared on my face, but I sent it back into my mind to be used later. A woman was sitting with Jem. She said, "Come in, Arthur. He's still asleep. Dr. Reynolds gave him gave him a heavy sedative." Then, turning to Scout, she asked, "Jean Louise, is your father in the living room?"

Scout answered that, yes indeed he was, and much to my relief the woman left the room. It was just me and my friends. I drifted towards the shadows in the corner, out of habit, I guess. I peered at Jem from a distance, almost afraid to go near him, in case he really was...dead. Scout walked over to me slowly and offered her hand. Studying her hand for a minute, confused, I realized she wanted me to go over to Jem. I took her hand in mine, she tugged on my hand, and I hesitated before following Scout slowly towards Jem's bed. I looked down at Jem's face, peaceful and calm. His eyes were closed and I briefly wondered what color his eyes were. I remember reading once that the eyes are the window to one's soul. I wished he would open his eyes, so I could be sure that his soul was still here. Again, the striking reality of the moment hit me and my mouth hung open in the slight shock of where I was. I gently lifted my hand to brush a stray strand of hair out of Jem's forehead, but decided against it and my hand dropped back quickly to my side.

"You can pet him, Mr. Arthur, he's asleep. You couldn't if he was awake, though, he wouldn't let you..." She paused and looked at me, "Go ahead."

I raised my hand again and this time I let it fall lightly on Jem's hair. Then I wanted to leave. I tightened my grasp on Scout's hand. Surprisingly, Scout understood my signal and she led me to the front porch. Now I realize that it shouldn't have been a surprise. One that night Scout and Jem and I were connected in the silent bond of friendship we had developed from our different sides of the fence. But that night was slowly ending, my dream was fading out. It was time to let go, to wake up. I tried to make myself let go of Scout's hand but I just couldn't. Instead, I found my voice. 

"Will you take me home?" I whispered it, afraid to speak loudly. I was terrified. These five words were the first five words I had spoken to anyone, aside from my brother, in the past 25 years. I knew to her I must sound childish, but I desperately wanted to spend more time with her before I went back into hiding. She paused for a second, weighing out her options, deciding whether or not to agree.  Then she said, "Mr. Arthur, bend your arm down here," She pulled gently on my arm and slipped her hand into the crook of my arm, "like that. That's right sir."

I had to stoop over a bit to accommodate her small size, but if anyone was to look out his or her window they would see me, crazy old Arthur Radley, walking down the street with Jean Louise Finch as any proper gentleman would do. We passed the telephone pole and I remembered all the times I spent watching Dill hugging the fat pole, watching, waiting, hoping. I opened the gate and we walked up to the front porch. I looked at Scout, wanting to say something, anything, but my voice was gone again. I reached out to the doorknob, the one  which had tormented me, shining tantalizingly in my face, daring my to leave. Now when I looked at it, it twinkled merrily and welcomed me back home. I opened the door and, using the rest of the smile I had saved, smiled at Scout. I willingly went inside and shut the door behind me.  I had accomplished my goals of protecting the children and making our imagined friendship a reality.

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I didn't know it then, but we would never meet in person again. The mystery was gone and she grew up. As for me, along with my pride and satisfaction, I found my voice and my brother lost his.


End file.
